


what makes living worthwhile

by WahlBuilder



Category: The Technomancer (Video Game)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Curses, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Feels, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Shapeshifting, set Abundance on fire, twenty headcanons in a trench coat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-27
Updated: 2019-07-27
Packaged: 2020-07-23 03:35:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20001685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WahlBuilder/pseuds/WahlBuilder
Summary: Viktor brings a protesting and badly wounded Anton to his apartment because it’s close, and lowers Anton carefully on a chair to lock to door—but when he turns to Anton... The Vor is nowhere to be found. Instead of him, there is a cat, on his side and breathing heavily, fur matted with blood.“Sorry for the hassle. This is me,mon Colonel.”





	what makes living worthwhile

Viktor brings a protesting and badly wounded Anton to his apartment because it’s close, and lowers Anton carefully on a chair to lock to door—but when he turns to Anton... The Vor is nowhere to be found. Instead of him, there is a cat, on his side and breathing heavily, fur matted with blood.

“Sorry for the hassle. This is me, _mon Colonel_.”

He nearly drops the keys. “Mr Rogue,” he rasps. “You are a...”

“No, I’m not a cat. But I _turn_ into a cat. Sometimes. Can’t turn back here. Have you... Have you ever treated a cat?”

He straightens up. “No. But I think the general principle is the same. May I... carry you to the room?”

“I’m afraid I’m in too much pain to get up myself.”

Viktor approaches Anton carefully, then slides his hands under him. He turns out to be quite heavy and big even as a cat. If washed, he’s probably very silky… Viktor brings him into the bedroom. Anton is purring lowly. Viktor read somewhere that cats purr like humans moan: sometimes in pleasure, sometimes from pain. He lowers Anton on the coverlet. He can’t tell the color of the fur, or even length. Anton twists and tries to—

“No, you shouldn’t do that, let me clean you properly!” He tries to hold Anton’s head back, make him lie down again.

The cat glares at him (has the same eyes). “I’ll be fine.”

“I need to see,” he insists. “I need to wash you first—”

 _Hiss_.

Strangely, it looks just like Anton. The expression, the hissing, bared fangs. It fits the Vor.

Viktor raises his hands. “With towels. I’ll be careful.”

Anton lies back again.

He goes through three changes of water before Anton is somewhat clean. His fur is long, and it makes the task of inspecting wounds more difficult, but Viktor doesn’t propose shaving it off. He isn’t sure he can do it properly.

When he attempts to sanitize Anton’s wounds with alcohol, a lot of things happen so fast that it takes him a few moments to process them: Anton hisses, and swipes a paw at him, scratching him, then his ears perk us and he’s murmuring “Sorry, sorry” and then licks the scratch on the back of Viktor’s hand. (A rough and hot tongue.)

“It’s... all right,” Viktor manages.

Anton flops down again. He looks... flat, even though Viktor knows he’s rather big, from carrying him.

After that, caretaking proceeds without incidents, with occasional twitches and hisses.

Viktor iodinates the scratch on his hand in the bathroom, mostly as a precaution. Then realizes that he shouldn’t have done it, perhaps, because now his hands would carry the scent... Does Anton have a heightened sense of smell like this? Hearing? Night vision? Should Viktor make a cone to stop Anton from attempting to lick his wounds? No, he thinks Anton’s pride won’t survive this.

He comes back to the bedroom to the sight of Anton curled up on the bed. He looks very comfortable, tempting Viktor to sleep. But his tail (long but it’s hard to say whether it’s thick-furred or not) flicks and ears twitch. Not entirely asleep.

“I shall bring you water.” He wonders where he should leave it. He can’t keep it on the bed, but forcing Anton to move... “I’ll put the bowl onto the bedside table. Will it be all right?”

“Yes. Thank you.” The last words are without a hint of irony. They sound tired, but heartfelt.

He finds a suitable bowl and fills it with water. He isn’t sure whether he should add anything, so he leaves it plain. He puts it on the bedside table as promised, then glances at Anton. “I’d like to move you higher, onto the pillows.”

The tail flicks. It brings a small smile to Viktor’s lips. Anton is as expressive in this form as in his human one. He slides his hands again under the still-wet body and moves Anton onto the pillow. And hears that sound: it’s low but not very loud, and only on exhales. Very soothing. Anton’s purring.

“Are you in pain?”

“Falling asleep.” Anton does sound sleepy, words a bit slurred.

Viktor strokes carefully along the spine. “Then sleep. I’ll be here and look after you.”

He goes still when Anton lifts his head and licks his fingers, once. He understands it as a “thank you”.

He wakes up groggy—and with a distinct feeling of a heavy weight pressing on his chest and his mouth covered by something soft. His mind tumbles into panic, but he tries to remember... This is just Anton. Lying on his chest.

As a cat.

And still asleep.

Viktor moves the fur away from his mouth carefully (it turns out to be a tail) and sees the outline of a round head with triangles of ears. The right one slightly torn on the tip. He lifts his hand—and hesitates. Is this allowed? Yes, Anton moved onto his chest at some point, but it doesn’t mean Viktor can touch him. Doesn’t smell like wet fur anymore, so Anton must be all dry. The tail is fluffy—is Anton like this all over? Soft and... Probably in need of a brush.

Viktor tentatively puts a hand on the arch of Anton’s back. Very soft, but patchy, the fur probably tangled. Anton is hot to the touch, but Viktor isn’t sure whether it’s normal for cats. Even though Anton isn’t a cat.

At least Anton doesn’t wake, but his body moves slightly under Viktor’s hand. Breathing.

Viktor has encountered many strange things in his years of service. The bigger the city, the stranger it gets. At the same time, the _smaller_ the city, the stranger it gets. An inverted bell curve of strangeness.

He’s seen creatures, in the Underworks, that shouldn’t even exist. He’s seen auroras deep in the belly of the earth. He’s found lush gardens in the depths of the Slums and couldn’t find them later even though he memorised the route perfectly.

So his nemesis turning into a cat sometimes doesn’t look that strange. This is Ophir, after all.

...But maybe it’s just a cat. He’s picked a cat that reminded him of the Vory boss. Usually, his hallucinations are visual, and not shaped so pleasantly, but why not advance to the audial?

The purring resumes lightly.

He drops his hand to the bed hastily. “I’m sorry. Did I wake you up?”

“Mm, you smell good.”

No, doesn’t sound like a hallucination at all.

Anton shuffles on his chest until his slightly dry nose is tucked under Viktor’s chin.

Viktor can only stare at the dark ceiling. This... is good. He is being pulled back into sleep, and the weight on his chest, though significant, doesn’t feel oppressive. He hasn’t been this sleepy for a long time. He realizes he tries to time his own breathing with Anton’s, to not dislodge him, even though the cat form is big enough that one paw is dangling off his chest.

The purring is chasing away dark thoughts that usually steal his sleep at such hours.

He is woken somewhat by loud lapping noises, but before he can get up, the warm weight presses him down again. He curls an arm to keep all of Anton on himself, because Anton seems to become... liquid-like once he starts falling asleep once more. The purring lulls him back to sleep.

In the morning, Anton is asleep on the other pillow. Though more accurately, Anton’s _third_ is on the other pillow. He is huge—which is not at all surprising, actually. Viktor doesn’t have much experience with cats, but he is certain that usually they are not this big. A stocky build, from what Viktor can see. And absolutely gorgeous. Anton’s fur is long, though tangled right now and dislodged by bandages. He has a magnificent fur collar, very long whiskers, an enormous tail. And the color: smoky-gray, but with so many dark shades and white patches, and lines, and it seems the marks are asymmetrical. He looks like the predator he is. Even now, asleep and injured, he looks dangerous. And there are darker markings on the face, as though he’s wearing a mask.

Viktor has a strange thought that Anton’s coloration fits Anton’s voice, of all things. Smoky. Soft.

The bowl is empty, and Viktor gets up, careful not to disturb the mattress and his sleeping companion. He picks the bowl and pads to the kitchen, rolling the stiffness out of his shoulders. He fell asleep fully dressed, and spent most of the night on his back with a weight on his chest—but despite all that, he feels well-rested, though Anton stretched on his side (Viktor estimates his length at one meter at least, and that’s without the tail) looks so invitingly comfortable that Viktor has to make himself not return immediately back to bed.

He washes the bowl, puts the kettle to boil. He should try to feed Anton something. Can Anton still eat human food? Not that Viktor has much...

He goes to refresh himself a little, and shaving gives him time to think—but instead he catches himself straining to hear any noises of distress. Does Anton meow? He certainly knows the sound of Anton’s growls and hissing.

When he returns to the kitchen, buttoning a fresh shirt, Anton is already there, getting on the couch. He is obviously used to moving in this form, although his movement lacks the usual grace: he carries himself with care, certainly due to injuries. And Viktor notices more things that are very much Anton: the torn ear, of course, and a slight misalignment of fur on the forehead, like due to a scar, and the same on the fluffy tail. Regardless of the form, Anton is a fighter and a survivor.

Viktor has to suppress the urge to stroke that round head, or touch the soft cheeks. “How are you feeling, Mr Rogue?”

“Much better, thank you. I heal fast in this form.”

Even after nearly bleeding out on the street? Viktor doesn’t comment. Instead, he chooses to ask: “Are you hungry? Should I get you something... special?”

His questions are answered with a huff while he fills his mug with tea. “If you offer me cat food, I will chew off your hand instead. I eat human food in either form, _mon Colonel_.”

He hides a smile at the familiar term of address. “Very well. I think I can make you sandwiches.”

Another huffs. “And how do you propose I eat them?”

Hm. He must be still a little sleepy if he didn’t think of that. He turns to Anton. He has the expert here, and Viktor never shies away from asking someone who knows more than he does. “What would you like, then? I can show you the contents of the fridge, and you choose on your own.”

The tail flicks, and Anton lowers himself on the couch cushion, paws tucked neatly under his body. “Yes, this would be good, thank you.”

He opens the fridge with one hand, keeping out of the way and filling his tea mug with sugar.

“Uh. Viktor? Have you forgotten to go grocery shopping?”

He glances at Anton. “No. Why?”

“There’s barely anything there!”

This cat form is perfect for conveying offense and dismay.

Viktor frowns. Maybe he _has_ forgotten. He glances into the fridge, but it’s the usual: a bit of sliced ham, three tins of canned vegetables, sliced cheese, half of black bread loaf wrapped in cellophane, and an apple. A little empty, but he never has the need to keep it full. The food would go to waste then.

“No, it’s my usual—”

“Why do you keep _bread_ in the fridge?” Anton jumps off the couch and trots to the fridge and puts his front paws on the shelf, stretching up, as though trying to find better the food that isn’t there.

“So it doesn’t go bad?”

“You _barbarian_!” Anton sounds like he’s taken all the offense in the universe.

He has to smother a smile on his shoulder, and doesn’t forget to keep the fridge door from closing. “I rarely stay here and I don’t need much anyway.”

 _“Nobody_ keeps bread in the fridge!” The tail is flicking from side to side, agitated. He can picture Anton frowning.

“All right, I will take it out. I need to make sandwiches anyway. What do you want?”

“Everything.” Anton drops from the shelf and goes back to the couch.

Viktor takes the bread out (another huff sounds from behind him, and the rhythmic thumping on the couch cushion tells him everything about Anton’s offense), them ham and cheese and the apple, though leaves the cans in the fridge. The bread is sliced, too, so it’s only a matter of—

His pants start creeping down. He looks at Anton pawing at his leg.

“Ham.”

What a bossy cat.

He holds a ham slice to him, and Anton pulls it out and eats it in three bites. The same fate transpires for a slice of cheese, then Viktor manages to swat the paws away and tells Anton to go back to the couch and wait a little.

Anton huffs, but does as he is told, tucking his paws under himself again, blinking slowly at Viktor. “And tea. But without sugar, please, and not the tar you make for yourself.”

Very bossy.

He pours tea into the bowl he used for water, making sure it isn’t very hot, then cuts ham and cheese (“And bread too!”) into small pieces and places on a small plate, then brings all of this to the couch. “Try not to overturn the bowl.”

A cat rolling his eyes is a strange sight. “I have experience with this, thank you.”

Indeed Anton does, lapping carefully and eating neatly. The last two pieces of cheese get stuck to the plate not matter how Anton cranes his neck to pick them off it. Viktor puts down his own mug (his tea is perfectly fine!) and takes those pieces off the plate and holds them to Anton.

Anton takes them very carefully, one after another. “Thank you.”

“You are welcome.” He has to resist another urge to pet Anton. This is _Anton_ , the Vory boss. Not just a cat.

“Is this your usual breakfast, _mon Colonel_?”

Viktor has noticed already that the voice sounds from Anton, but doesn’t exactly come from his mouth. Strange, but not bad kind of strange.

Anton licks his paw. Oh Shadow.

Viktor shrugs, sipping at his tea. “Yes. When I bother with breakfast, that is.”

Anton stops mid-lick, and glances at him. “Barbarian! You should eat properly, you know? No wonder you are all bones!”

All right, he doesn’t want his eating habits to be criticized by a cat. “And you? How much do you even weight in this form?”

“I’m just broad-boned!”

“My ribcage nearly caved under you.”

“I’m only eleven kilos in this form.”

He raises his brows. _“Only?”_ Eleven kilos on his chest. Shadow. “Can’t you turn back?”

Anton lowers his paws, and turns his head away. “Told you I can’t. Not here.”

He wants to touch him so much. To comfort him. He would need to check the bandages anyway. “Why?” He shakes his head. “You don’t have to answer.”

“Wrong place. Not... my place.”

He frowns. Anton’s back conveys his tension, Viktor doesn’t know how. “Should I take you to your apartment? Why aren’t you a cat outside of it all the time?”

The tip of the tail flicks. “I don’t mean ‘my place’ as in ‘my apartment’. I mean it as ‘my place’.”

His place. His apartment, his... His territory. His districts, his Slums.

But this is a wrong place because it’s Viktor’s place. The place of Anton’s enemy.

“I... think I understand. I’m sorry. I’d like to check your wounds again, and if they are fine, you are free to go.” What a strange thing to say to the criminal he’s supposed to be arresting. But, he tells himself, he can’t bring a cat to the HQ, can he?

 _“You smell good.”_ He was told that on occasion, as someone’s attempt at charm. But this night, it wasn’t that, it certainly wasn’t seduction. Anton found comfort in his presence, in his body. Viktor doesn’t know what to think about it.

He reaches out. “May I?”

“Yes.”

He sits closer to Anton, undoing the bandages. Anton’s eyes are closed, and he turns without complaints whenever Viktor tells him.

“Mr Rogue? _What_ is this?”

Anton doesn’t reply for a while. “A curse.” He sounds distant.

“Can it be broken?”

“I tried.”

But obviously without success.

“I’m sorry, Anton.”

Anton is a very energetic man, so Viktor changes the bandages just in case Anton’s movements make the wounds open again. But right now Anton appears melancholic. Probably needs more rest.

“You can stay here if you want,” Viktor offers. “Or leave, though I’d ask you to not jump or get into fights for a day.”

“I’d like to stay.”

Viktor feels... He doesn’t want to place a name to what he feels. But it’s something good, even though he should be feeling it. “Back to bed? Should I carry you?”

“You said I’m heavy.”

“It’s all right.”

“...Yes. I’m tired.”

He picks Anton up carefully under the front paws—Anton’s body seem to stretch on and on—then puts a hand under his hind legs. He intends to carry Anton in his arms—but Anton climbs partly onto his shoulder, throwing his front paws around his neck for purchase. Purring softly. Tired and probably in pain, but won’t say it.

Keeping one hand under Anton’s hind legs, he puts his other hand carefully on Anton’s back and strokes a few times.

The purring becomes louder.

Then another problem arises: he tries to get Anton down on the bed, but Anton only tightens his hold on Viktor’s neck.

“No. You, too. I can tell you need years of sleep.”

“I—”

The purring becomes even louder, and more insistent.

Viktor smiles, defeated. “You are determined to purr me into sleep, don’t you?”

“I’m a sneaky Rogue.”

He maneuvers them so he can pull up a blanket, and then he lies back, and Anton’s nose, wet now and cool, is tucked under his chin again. He dislikes when his neck is touched, but Anton’s touch is soft enough that Viktor shivers. It’s not bad.

He falls asleep to even purring and a quiet “Thank you”.

After that fateful day, he keeps catching glimpses of the fluffy tail, of the long, powerful body here and there. Some nights he is certain that the blood-and-champagne eyes are watching him from the corner of his office, Shadow knows how Anton gets there in his cat form. But he’s witnessed Anton scale a seemingly smooth, perfectly vertical building wall once, so why not.

(He catches himself leaving the window open.)

They continue their usual mutual hunt, the intricate dance of push and pull, giving and fighting, deals and raids.

He doesn’t sleep as well as while being pinned down, when he can sleep at all.

He catches himself worrying, too. The Upper Ophir, especially the areas around the Source, has many guard dogs—how does Anton fare here? He wonders about the scars: they don’t seem all to match the scars on his human body (what glimpses of it Viktor has seen). Especially the one on the face. So, it seems the scars of the human form translate onto the cat form, but those acquired in the cat form don’t carry over to the human form. Interesting.

And not at all surprising that Anton can and will pick fights regardless of his form.

(Sometimes, in his sleep, he thinks he can feel the touch of a wet nose and hear the soft purring.)

He tries to find things about such curses, any curses at all, but it’s woefully little and doesn’t seem to apply to Anton’s case.

All of it leaves his head when he returns to Ophir from one particular mission sick and broken. He goes straight to his apartment, unwilling to let anyone see him in such a state. He barely takes off the blazer (not his usual jacket), and toes shoes off, and then shambles to the bedroom and falls onto the bed and tries to wrap himself in as many blankets as he can, but he still feels exposed and he’s shaking. He knows he has a fever, but he can’t scrape himself off the mattress to do anything about it. He hopes he will die.

He wants to disappear. The mission is a success, of course, so can’t he just disappear at last?

The usual dark figures crowd to him, but he is so tired he can’t even be bothered to be afraid.

He floats in and out of consciousness, not falling asleep but not exactly awake, memories and twisted recallings of his training filling the broken spaces in him with his mentor’s criticism and berating tone.

_Why were you putting off the final phase?_

“I didn’t want it.”

_Your desires don’t matter. Didn’t I tell you how to get rid of them?_

“You did. I’m sorry, sir.”

_And because of your dawdling you had to kill her. We lost an asset._

“I’m sorry, sir.”

_Your ‘sorry’s are useless, boy._

“I don’t want to sleep with anyone.”

_But you slept with that Rogue, didn’t you?_

He stirs, the poison inside him burned away somewhat by a spike of anger. “Leave him out of this! It’s nothing!”

“What’s nothing, sweet one? Drink, drink.”

The dark shapes retreat, and there is only one presence, powerful but soft, gentle. And a hand slides under his neck firmly, but gently, helping him up, and something is held to his lips, and Viktor’s teeth clatter against it, but he drinks greedily, and it rolls soothing down his throat, washing away the bitterness in his mouth with flowery sweetness.

“Yes, like this. You are safe. I’m here.”

Then the mattress dips, and he wants, and he is wrapped into powerful arms, and he throws his hands around a big body and he isn’t sure whether he’s digging his fingers into fur or fabric, but it’s soft, and soft purring fills his ears, drowning out the nagging voice in his head.

“Shh.”

He wakes up still sick, but feeling less irreparably broken. Wrapped in a tight cocoon. And there is a presence that he recognizes immediately: he feels it but doesn’t hear it, and only Anton can do that, can exude such impression of physical power held in check by care and softness.

So he hasn’t dreamed Anton up. And Anton managed to chase away his usual nightmares and hallucinations.

“Don’t try to get up yet, Vitya, your fever has broken, it seems, but you are too weak. Take it slow.” The presence moves—

_Vitya._

He curls up tighter, feeling comforted rather than exposed.

Then soft lips press to his forehead. “Yes, it’s broken.”

He opens his eyes, peeking above the blanket—but Anton has moved away again. The curtains are lowered, blocking out the light, and there is a good smell of something flowery, like that drink at night.

Anton moves out of his field of vision, but surprisingly, it doesn’t alarm him.

He closes his eyes again. “How are you here?”

“I... might have bothered your secretary,” Anton replies after a brief pause. Strangely, he sounds a little embarrassed. “You were absent for so long, and I was worried, and I kept showing up at your office, and Henry noticed and told me that, indeed, you were taking too long. And then they gave me the key to your apartment...”

And Henry recognized somehow that Anton can take care of him when nobody else can.

Something is strange about it, though (aside from everything).

“You are human!” He sits up—and groans, pressing a hand to his forehead. Bad idea. Bad, bad idea, his head feels like it’s going to explode.

Anton is at his side immediately, pushing on his shoulders lightly to make him lie down. “I told you not to get up,” Anton scolds him, but without heat, then pulls up the blankets.

Viktor opens one eye, then the other: Anton is frowning, tucking him in like it’s the most important task in the world.

He is very much human.

“You are human,” Viktor repeats in astonishment.

Anton pulls back, rubs the nape of his neck. The usual jacket is absent and there’s a simple gray T-shirt, leaving his arms, covered wrist to shoulder in tattoos, open. Viktor has a rather absurd thought that Anton’s biceps are almost the thickness of Anton’s whole body when he’s a cat (if he unimagines the fur).

“Well, yeah. I can turn at will.”

Viktor closes his eyes again. Anton’s voice is very soothing, and he appreciates his presence. “But you couldn’t, before.”

“No, I couldn’t.”

“And somehow I don’t think you appeared before Henry in cat form.”

“I did, actually, but not when they gave me the key.”

“Didn’t know your influence finally conquered the Upper Ophir.”

“I haven’t. It’s... your apartment.”

Evidently. “So it’s your place?”

“Well... sort of.”

He rolls his head and glances at Anton. Anton isn’t looking at him.

“Sort of?”

“It’s... you, Vitya.”

 _“My place”._ Viktor opens his mouth. Then closes it. He can’t bring himself to ask _Am I yours now, then?_

Judging by the way Anton is scratching his own hands, Anton knows exactly what he’s thinking about.

And it isn’t... a bad thought. He isn’t _owned_ —he is protected, he is... someone (somewhere?) Anton feels safe around. It even extends to the HQ, strangely enough. It’s his place, but he’s Anton’s, so it’s Anton’s place. Anton’s people, now, too, probably.

If he’d been under this curse, he would have been able to turn at will around Anton, too.

“There is more ham in the fridge,” he says.

Anton rolls his eyes. “Ham! I stocked it up properly, and took out the bread. You are going to rest and I’m going to make you breakfast and lunch and dinner, and sit on you and purr you to sleep.”

It doesn’t sound very threatening. It sounds very tempting.

After the breakfast (consisting of porridge _and_ salad _and_ sandwiches and that flowery tea), Viktor feels his eyelids drooping. He needs a shower, but can’t attempt it now, so he just shuffles back to the bed—and as soon as he lies down, there are eleven kilos of cat pawing at him and then curling up half on his chest. He strokes Anton a little, but falls asleep fast to insistent low purring. He feels vaguely Anton sort of... dripping off, then turns onto his side—and the mattress dips significantly behind him as an arm is slung over his waist.

He wakes up some time in the afternoon. There is a very human light snoring behind him, and his hand is cradled loosely in Anton’s big fingers. Viktor appreciates this very much. That Anton doesn’t pressure him, gives him a way out.

He realizes he’s woken up because of his own thoughts. He doesn’t want to get up yet.

He doesn’t trust Anton. No, that’s not the word...

Sometimes he has to remind himself to trust Henry. But at the end of the day, Henry is his charge, he must take care of them, not the other way around.

He’s been trained to divide the whole world into assets and targets. People sometimes move from the former category to the latter, and rarely the other way. He thinks of himself as an asset, even though he turns into a target, too, from time to time.

But Anton is... Anton is something else.

Officially, Anton is his target, of course, and sometimes an asset—but things are so strange with Anton. Like walking over a sheer drop. Exciting in a way that makes Viktor’s heart pound in fear and in thrill. The thrill of the chase, yes, but something else, too.

The promise, the glimpse of a different world where people are not targets or assets.

Anton doesn’t fit into neat boxes. Anton doesn’t react how Viktor predicts he should—and Viktor can see that sometimes it’s a great struggle for Anton to not react that way. A constant battle with himself, with... what Abundance has taught him.

And it’s terrifying, some part of Viktor shrinks away from it.

Because if Anton deserves to not be fitted into “predator-prey” categories, then maybe everyone deserves it, maybe Viktor deserves it. If Anton didn’t have to go through everything he went through, then maybe Viktor didn’t deserve that either, maybe what happened to him and what was done to him wasn’t in service of some higher goal. Maybe it was just plain cruelty.

Maybe his whole life is built on lies and suffering.

Maybe he hasn’t worked hard enough, maybe he’s done the wrong thing. Maybe he should have broken out the people he cares about instead of trying to settle them, however well, where they are.

Maybe there is a way out—just... not for him. He’s too broken for that—and he didn’t deserve it. What happened to him, didn’t have to happen at all, because it doesn’t have to happen to anyone. But he can’t be helped anymore.

There is no fate and he didn’t do anything to deserve that, it just... happened. He was unlucky to be born, that’s all, like someone else is lucky to be born into a family of an Assembly member, and lives without knowing hunger. It just happens.

He presses a hand to his eyes.

Anton stirs. “What’s wrong?”

“You should leave.” He can’t control even his voice right now.

“Do you want me to?”

He grips the sheets. “It doesn’t matter what I want!”

“It matters to me.” Anton’s hand slides onto his side, and he needs to push it away, but he’s so, so weak, disgusting, he can’t do it.

“We can’t all do whatever we want!”

“Why not?”

“Because there will be chaos everywhere! Laws exist for a reason!”

“And you,” Anton breathes onto the nape of his neck, and it should disgust him, it should, but he’s so weak, “are so afraid of chaos that you don’t stop to ask who made those laws and for whom.”

“I serve the law, not the other way around!”

“Then it only means those laws weren’t made by you or for you.”

He turns around and closes his fingers on Anton’s throat—and Anton just blinks at him, slowly.

“Why aren’t you fighting?” he manages through gritted teeth, and he knows his hold is too weak and wrong. “Why don’t you kill me?”

“Because I’m tired,” Anton replies calmly, his voice tender. “Because you speak to voices only you can hear. Because you didn’t kick out a wounded stray cat.”

He growls. “This doesn’t make any sense!”

“For you, maybe. Then send me to one of the camps.” Anton’s eyes narrow, and his voice takes a hissing cadence, and fangs flash. “Can’t be worse than the ward they locked me up in back in the Army. Come on, do it! I’m a crazy Rogue, am I? How dare I try to see a person in you!”

Anton pushes his hand away and jumps off the bed, big and terrible and distant, and Viktor reaches out to him, _Save me_ , but then drops his hand.

Then something happens, he can’t describe what, but he blinks—and Anton is still here, but with ears flat and his tail swishing back and forth, and by the quiet “Fuck!” Viktor understands it isn’t intentional.

His heart tightens.

“I’m leaving,” Anton says, his voice tense. “The keys are in the kitchen, don’t worry.” And then he runs, and a rush of noise tells Viktor that Anton must have pushed the window open somehow, and then he’s gone. He’s gone.

Viktor cries silently—and then his whole body spasms, and he curls up, wailing aloud, feeling as though his heart is being wrenched out of his chest, he cries and cries and cries until his throat is raw and his head hurts.

He wakes up later, disoriented, dirty. He kicks away the blankets, and tears off his shirt and pants and underwear, and would have torn off his skin if he could, and stumbles to the bathroom. He barely clamps back a call for Anton. Anton is not here anymore.

He collides with the sink in the bathroom and climbs into the shower and doesn’t even draw the curtain, just turns the spray on without checking the temperature. Cold water hits his back, and he barely cares. He reaches blindly for a brush, starts scrubbing his skin until it hurts but it is still not enough.

He just wants _out_. Somehow, any possible way.

He curls up on the bottom of the tub, teeth clattering from cold.

Anton is not here and he won’t return because he doesn’t have the key anymore and he can’t even open the door while being a cat. He won’t return. He’s angry with Viktor, he hates Viktor.

Isn’t that what Viktor wanted? What was necessary?

But no matter how much he tries to squash it, he still wants to bury his face in soft fur, and to feel like his back is covered, and to be fed a proper breakfast even with a bit of lighthearted, not serious blackmail, and he wants to climb into the bed and be wrapped in Anton’s arms.

He wants to feel like a person, not an asset and not a target.

“Vitya? Oh gods, Vitya, you are cold as ice!”

The water is turned off and he’s being pulled up by the shoulders, and then wrapped in a clean sheet, and picked up, and maneuvered out of the bathroom, and...

He holds onto Anton’s neck tight. “Tosha?”

“Yes, yes. Hold on.”

Then he’s being lowered on the bed so very carefully, and patted dry, and then Anton takes the soaked sheet off and wraps him in blankets instead, like before.

The bedsheets are clean, very fresh, and pillow cases are changed, too, and Anton is soaked, but it can’t be shower, because he smells of rain and there is a cut on his cheek, fresh.

“Tosha.” He can’t speak properly, teeth still clattering, but his body isn’t spasming anymore, and Anton is running warm hands over his shoulders...

“Fuck, Vitya, you rubbed yourself raw. I’ll bring—”

“Don’t go.” He’s gripping Anton’s hand, and Anton is here, and human, big and warm and slightly damp, in his jacket still glistening with rain, and his fingers close on Viktor’s. “Please. Don’t go.”

“Just to the bathroom, sweet thing, to get some cream to treat your rash. I’ll be back quick, I promise.”

He lies back and lets go of Anton, even though his heart is still tight from fear. It’s difficult to breath.

But he can hear Anton making noises: the jacket creaks, probably when Anton takes it off, and then he pads to the bathroom, clicks the light switch, opens the door of the cabinet, rifles through it...

And Viktor lies here in twilight—is it morning? evening?—and doesn’t understand except for the fact that Anton is here.

Anton’s steps return. “Sweet thing, I’m buying you a box of moisturizing products, you seriously need them.”

Viktor looks at him as Anton—in the gray T-shirt—sits down on the edge of the bed by his side, and Viktor wants to curl up to him, but the weight of the blankets is so good and the sheets are so fresh.

“All right, sorry that my hands might be a little cold, I warmed them under hot water, but...” Anton flicks open the cap, squeezes the cream out, and pulls the blankets down slight and starts rubbing the cream into Viktor’s shoulder.

It... stings. Anton must be right: he rubbed himself raw. Judging by the scent, it’s his tattoo cream.

Anton’s touch is gentle but with slight pressure, and his eyes flicks to Viktor’s face once in a while.

“You are back,” he says.

Anton nods. “I am. Turn a little, please.”

He complies and repeats, mostly to himself, “You are back. And human.”

“Yes.” Anton caps the cream tube and puts it on the bedside table, and the folds his hands on his lap.

Viktor wants to hold his hand again.

“I was angry,” Anton says quietly. “With you, that’s true, but mostly with myself, for being angry with you, for lashing out at you while you are so vulnerable. And I was angry over what was done to you. During this mission—I can see it, don’t deny it, please. I don’t know what transpired, but it hurt you badly, and I’m angry. But over... everything, too. Your job, your work, the tiny Assembly and ASC in your own head, and them in mine, too, and over this fucking city, and...” Anton takes a deep breath, then exhales and rubs the nape of his neck. “Well, I’m always angry. But, regardless, I shouldn’t have said all those words, and shouldn’t have left you. I’m sorry.”

“What’s with the cut?”

Anton touches his cheek, looks at his fingers. “It’s nothing. Got into a fight, is all. Needed it.”

Viktor reaches for his hand, and Anton looks at him, eyes as broken as Viktor feels. “You are not a monster,” he says quietly. “And not crazy.”

Anton shakes his head. “You know better than most what kind of things I’ve done. And sometimes I didn’t have even the excuse of necessity. I _wanted_ to do them, and I did them.” Anton’s mouth twists. “We can’t all do whatever we want, can we.”

Viktor tugs on Anton’s hand, and Anton lies down beside him. Viktor moves to give him more space—and Anton moves after him, hiding his face on Viktor’s shoulder, and then his other hand closes around Viktor’s waist, over the blankets.

He feels pinned, but not trapped.

“I want you,” Anton says quietly. “I’m tired of fighting you and pretending I hate you. I hate you _sometimes_ , I hate some of your masks, but not _you_. I want to take you out on a date and not have to pretend about anything. I want to cook for you just because, without a logical reason. I want to stop trying to find excuses, and just _be_ with you.”

He strokes down Anton’s back, radiating heat. He almost expects fur. Anton’s words should send him after a gun—but they don’t. Anton gives voice to the desires Viktor kept turning away from.

He must consider everything, there is their work, there is—

Fuck it.

“I don’t think I can muster enough strength to go out right now,” he says, keeping his stroking. Anton feels very good under his touch in any form. “But I am getting fond of your cooking and we have a whole fridge to go through.”

Anton lifts his head. “It won’t be easy.” He isn’t talking about the fridge, Viktor knows.

“No. I’m sorry. Do you still—”

“Yes, I want it anyway. We’ll make it work.”

He smiles. “You know, I thought it’s usually that humans adopt cats. I guess we have it the other way around.”

Anton smiles in reply. “I’m certainly keeping you. Going to take care of you as best as I can.”

He cups Anton’s cheek, cold from being in the rain, but warming up quickly. “Then keep me.”

And they kiss.


End file.
